


Harmless

by lonelywalker



Category: Smallville
Genre: Age Difference, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:18:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fantasy has never been so real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harmless

"Relax," he says, and she can feel herself tense the way she can feel him ache, the way neither of them are moving as they should. She has a bruise on her back right where it meets the desk and, for such a small, childish wound, it's leaving her in too much discomfort to think clearly about what he's doing.

He's been smacked across the face by people or debris, and he's wiped away blood from a hundred tiny cuts. There's dirt in his hair: sweat and smoke caked into a mixture that has streaked a thick, oily black across golden brown. She curls her fingers into the mess, pulling on him, tugging him closer.

Neither of them are naked, but her legs are spread, his fly undone, and she's never felt more exposed in her life. Equally, she's never needed someone more. The touch of his fingers against the sinews of her thighs makes her only more acutely aware of the throb of blood at her groin, her rapid breathing, the way her hips are already finding a rhythm to their desperate movement.

"Mr. Luthor..."

He had taken her virginity more times than she'd thought to count, back on school nights when she was young, and innocent, and he had yet to try to kill her. She'd had to learn to only whisper the words she had wanted him to mutter in his low growl of a voice, to choke back her cries of release, burying her head in sweat-soaked pillows. She'd hated him, and wanted him, and closing her eyes tightly while she stroked herself to climax had seemed like the safest solution.

She had understood teen fantasies, even then. Lusting after Lionel Luthor, billionaire, was surely no more real than wanting Brad Pitt or a Hanson brother. It would pass. She would laugh at herself. No harm would be done.

In the end, Jimmy Olsen had been her first, and he had been a disappointment. Jimmy's a nice, sweet boy, though, and he hadn't hurt her. He hadn't threatened her, or made her betray her friends. He certainly hadn't tried to kill her. But she'd never fantasized about Jimmy. Instead, her mind had unearthed old memories of hands on her shoulders, of words whispered in her ear, of the hard muscles and thick cock she imagined lay beneath his tailored clothes.

The light is bad in his office. There's barely any power in the entire city. It's getting colder as the night goes on, too, and neither of them are in a hurry to remove any clothes.

"I will if you will," she says as his thumb runs down the seam of her pants and then rests there - a firm pressure against her clit.

He steps back, and takes off his shirt.

 

She's on her knees on the floor of his office, and all of her attempts to appear confident have been thwarted by (of course) his fly, which obviously requires either super-strength or genetically-enhanced agility to open.

She can feel him breathing, slow and steady, with her palm laid flat against his belly. He's warm, and tense, and he says nothing even though it's been minutes since either of them made a sound. When she finally comes to an understanding with his fly, pulling his pants open and exposing the thick bulge in his briefs, he strokes a hand over her head, disturbing carefully-styled blonde locks. She doesn't mind.

They're taking it more slowly this time, even though they both hurt less. He has stitches in his cheek that might scar. Her ankle won't stand up to the treadmill quite yet. But the rest of their injuries have been cured by hot showers and, she imagines, massages from thoroughly-trained Asian girls. There are no lingering irritations this time, but no excuses either. She had come here with one object in mind.

"Chloe," he says as she takes his cock in her hand, his briefs pulled down low, stretched out under his balls. She strokes him with a lazy thumb, and she can't remember if he has ever called her that before, if he had ever cried it out in ecstasy that first night.

He stretches, hips nudging his erection further through the circle made by her fingers. "Chloe," he says again, his voice no more than a whisper.

She squeezes him, feeling his cock push back as she goes so, growing, pulsing blood she can feel throbbing against her fingertips. Could he be any more vulnerable than this? Her grip is tight, and his position on the couch relaxes as his head tips back and he sighs, long and low.

But he's still wearing his shirt and tie, his polished black loafers, and she wonders how many other pretty girls have been down on their knees for him in this, the officially mandated Luthorcorp lunch hour. She pushes his cock up towards his belly, running her index finger down towards his balls before cupping them with careful pressure, feeling the shape of him. The first time had been quick and dark. She'd felt him inside her, the way he'd made her body stretch to accommodate him, but she hadn't seen him. Not like this.

She waits until he opens his eyes to touch her lips to the head of his cock, maintaining eye contact even as it strains her neck to look up so far. His grip on her shoulders tenses, and she knows he's fighting with himself, wanting to push her down, to fuck her mouth with abandon. But he doesn't, and she waits, her tongue finally flicking out, licking a circle that tastes nothing but skin and an aching, raw heat.

She's afraid of him coming in her mouth. There had been no condoms the first time - it had been a distant concern in the face of certain death - and it seems as if asking would break unspoken rules now. She had liked the feel of him naked inside her, and she isn't confident enough to take control of the situation as she would with Jimmy.

Just as her lips close over the head of his cock, there's a nudge at her shoulder, and a peace offering held out to her in the form of plastic.

"You know how to use this, I assume."

She would smack him if she didn't want him so much.

 

His cock is a dull pressure inside her, almost painful at this angle, and he's so hard that shifting position is... His fingers dig into her hips and pull her forward without even the vaguest hint of asking for permission, and then suddenly she's moving, he's moving her, and everything begins to slide and flow and feel suddenly, extraordinarily good.

It's not yet noon, and sunlight is streaming in from the unmasked windows of her apartment, exposing the secret intimacies of her life: a wallchart scribbled with notes that ceased to be legible months ago, band posters, post-its gradually peeling away from every surface and fluttering to the floor.

He shouldn't be here. The day is too early, the room too bright, her bed too soft and familiar. Having Lionel Luthor fuck her among her schoolbooks and family photographs is the stuff of surrealism, not fantasies. But he's brought her - not flowers, that too would be extreme - but a copy of the _Planet_ , literally hot from the presses, and bearing one of her rare bylines. Hearing him read the entire article in his studied professional tone (albeit with the barest hint of sarcasm) as she sat on the bed and hugged a pillow to her chest had been the best foreplay a girl could ever hope for.

"Is this okay?" she asks, hands lightly tracing the muscles of his chest, the scars of old wounds, the dusting of hair that might be gray in another light.

He seems oddly comfortable here, and she had never taken him for a man who would be anything but a definite top in bed. His hands reach up between her arms to cup her breasts, his hips bucking gently underneath her, and he lets out a moan of deep, deep satisfaction. She can't help but grin, wondering if she'll be finding strands of brown hair even longer than her own decorating her pillow until laundry day.

She has a drawer full of condoms, now - foisted upon her by the Planned Parenthood stall at the university - and he'd laughed at the garish yellow of the banana-flavored ones before suggesting that she look into other forms of birth control. She's not sure how she feels about that, whether it's the implication of a long-term sexual relationship, or the idea that she's somehow let him into her life to such an extent that nothing physical is off-limits. But they use the plastic this time, even though he'd seemed fascinated by Brian, the molded purple vibrator who inhabits the same drawer and resembles a particularly cute dinosaur.

As he moves inside her, their bodies fitting together with such tight certainty, it occurs to her that she's finding out things about him, too. She knows what he tastes like, his tongue rough against hers with minty toothpaste and breath freshener not quite masking the whiskey and the occasional cigar. She knows that a scrape of long nails against his biceps can, at the right moment, drive him crazy with desire. She knows he's uncut, and a little sensitive about it (he'd murmured something about Scottish parents and a suggestion that she be gentle). But it's more than the purely physical.

In the first fantasy she'd ever had about him, when she'd never seen a naked man in the flesh, when her longings for sex were somehow diverted into a simple need to be kissed, she had had daydreams about him pinning her against the wall in the _Torch_ , his beard scratching her face, his lips, finally, on hers. And, more than that, he had told her a secret, a simple piece of emotional intimacy that always escaped her with Clark.

"Tell me something," she says playfully, seeing him flushed with desire, as vulnerable as he could ever be. She's been pinching his nipples, and discovering that he likes that a lot, and his cock likes it even more. "When was the first time you knew you wanted me?"

He doesn't answer, and, really, that's all the answer she needs.

 

They spend Thanksgiving together by accident, sit next to each other at the Kents' dining table because Jimmy is with his parents, and Lionel hasn't had anything resembling a significant other in years. She thinks about holding his hand underneath the table, but it's so stupidly romantic that it seems far more inappropriate than kissing him, than having him fuck her so hard and fast that she screams. Besides, their host has x-ray vision, and that's enough of a realization to make her afraid to even look at him for the rest of the evening.

He gives her a ride home - Lois and Oliver only have eyes for each other, after all - and, even though she's had visions of screwing him on the soft leather seats, neither of them makes a move.

"Are you thinking about her?" she asks, finally, and she knows when she does that she sorely needs to learn how to ask questions without sounding like she intends to publish the answers in the _Planet_.

He blinks once, distracted, and turns to her. "Martha?"

"Your wife."

"Ah."

And that, it seems, is all that needs to be said.

She spends the night with him in his penthouse, in his bed, knowing that Lois will be at Oliver's, knowing that no one will wonder where she is. He has no photographs in his bedroom - none of his wife, or his sons. No posed pictures with world leaders or captains of industry. For a while she feels unwelcome, as if he simply can't find the words to ask her to leave, but then he pours himself a drink and, after a moment of thought, pulls out a glass for her.

As she sips it - brandy that burns her throat and makes her a little lightheaded - he kisses her, and there's no mistaking the alcohol on his lips now.

"Are you thinking about her?" she repeats in a whisper as he takes the glass from her and puts it on the table beside his bed, presses her down into the deep folds of expensive blankets.

His body is lithe and powerful, the deceptive muscle of a snake as he covers her, parts her thighs, rubs his hips against hers. "Are you thinking about him?" he says, and it's more of a threat than perhaps he intended, but she knows that she could never be in danger.

As his teeth tear at her lips, as his cock slips between her legs, and she bunches sheets in her hands to keep from crying out, they both know that she's only thinking of him.

She always has been.


End file.
